Coming Home to You (18 page)

I extracted my face from the couch and shot her a look. “So what part of love, honor, and trust does that fall under? If Ray kept something like that from you, you wouldn’t trust him about other things, Kate, and you know it. He was an alcoholic. An alcoholic. And he didn’t tell me,” I said. “Kate, he didn’t tell me. I feel…betrayed.”

She reached out and took my hand. “I’m sorry, Zoë. And you’re right. I would feel the same way if Ray kept something this important from me. I don’t know why he thought he couldn’t tell you.” She leveled her gaze at me. “Just out of curiosity, did Sam tell you what he and Paul were arguing about?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling sick. I was on overload. The day had been full of far more revelations than I had been prepared for, and none of them seemed to be uplifting. “They were arguing about me. Sam didn’t think Paul and I should have gotten engaged.”

“Why?” Kate asked, then thought better of the question. “Never mind. I think we both know the answer to that question, even though Sam could’ve come up with a million reasons to tell you that no one would be able to contradict.” She shook her head. “This is all such a mess.”

I smiled sadly at her. “I know.”

“So what happens next?”

I shrugged. “He’s made his amends. I set him free, told him I forgave him, but I couldn’t be his friend. I told him to live his life, and to do it in a way that would make Paul proud.”

“How do you feel about that, Zoë?” Kate asked quietly, her eyes boring into mine.

I paused before answering.

“I want to move on,” I said at last, meaning every word.

Chapter 17

I called Glenn later that week and set up a meeting, having Google-stalked him like a crazy person and researching his projects as thoroughly as humanly possible. Everything checked out, and the man seemed to be above reproach—not a trait easily found among contractors. So when we met at the store to do the official exchanging of deeds and funds, I felt confident in my decision.

Not to mention excited. I hadn’t brought Ray by, hadn’t even told Kate or my parents the particulars of my plans. As far as they all knew, I was still looking for a space. I wanted this to be something I did as much on my own as possible. I was proud of this step, proud of every inch of brick that I was about to claim as my own, and I felt sure that this was the right move to make.

Glenn had even agreed to help me with everything that I needed to do to the interior of the store before it was ready to open. I was grateful for his expertise—he’d given me the names and numbers of people to contact to get all of my permits and licenses in order, so I didn’t feel so much in the dark.

The biggest thing now would be getting things like fixtures and products, all of which I was spending hours on the Internet hunting down. I loved every minute of it, though. It gave me new focus, made me feel as though I was gaining control of my life and my future again. And it made me proud of myself. Not in a haughty, self-important way—just in the way that I felt confident in my capabilities.

It was good.

It was healthy.

It was exhilarating.

And it was healing.

I was healing; my heart was healing—a little at a time.

My concept for the store was simple, perhaps, but it was one that I hadn’t seen anywhere else.

It was femininity and confidence in its purest form:
lipstick
.

I was going to be a purveyor of lipstick, lip glosses, lip liners, lip stains—all things lip. And the store was called Lip Service.

I’d read somewhere that while liberating a concentration camp during World War II, the Allies brought the damaged women they found there tubes of lipstick. Bright red tubes of lipstick that made the women cry because, in all their nakedness and suffering, they were transformed from the creatures they’d been reduced to back into women.

A tube of lipstick that was such a simple, yet such a profound gift.

And a simple step toward healing.

That was the source of inspiration behind my store. Lipstick is universal—it can be worn by a woman regardless of size or shape or age. It is a simple detail that can lend confidence, that can speak volumes even when its wearer is silent. It finishes a look.

And it can make a woman feel beautiful.

I wanted to be able to give that to other women, to give them confidence and encouragement—even if it was in such a small way as this. I’d had to do so much of my own healing over the past year, had been reduced to such emotional desperation that I often feared I would never find my way to the other side. I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t had the love and support of my friends and family—but not everyone had that. And I wanted to be able to give back. Part of the profits from the store’s sales would be donated to women’s charities I had hand-picked. It wasn’t saving the world, but it was still something that mattered.

I was finally truly excited about what I was going to be doing with my life, felt like I was finally going to somehow be making a difference, even if it was only a small one. But this was a chance to shine, and to make other women shine, too.

I couldn’t think of a better way to use the money Paul had left me, or a better way to honor his memory.

I knocked resolutely on Randall Sloane’s door, determined that I wouldn’t seem tentative about my decision, even in this small detail. I had my plans, and I would not be swayed. This was it, the point of no return.

“Come in,” Randall’s voice came through the thick oak door.

I turned the heavy brass knob and pushed the door open, catching a glimpse of myself reflected in the glass of a framed picture by the door. It startled me for a minute, seeing the movement out of the corner of my eye, but I collected myself quickly and cleared my throat.

“Do you have a moment, Randall?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied, swiveling in his large leather desk chair so that he was facing me.

I took a moment to study the man that had been my employer for the past few years of my life. Randall Sloane was solid, stately—the kind of guy you expected to see enjoying an expensive Scotch and a Cuban cigar in the billiard room with “the boys” after dinner. He wore well-cut Italian suits and Hermes ties and kept a regular table at Jackson’s, one of Pensacola’s premier restaurants. The man played his Georgia accent as though it was an instrument—thick, slow, and rich, like notes being seduced from the strings of a cello.

He played women, too, even though he was married. Fortunately for Randall, he’d learned the art of plying his wife with expensive baubles. In turn, she turned a blind eye to his ever-lengthening list of tête-à-têtes. Otherwise, I had a feeling that he would have racked up some heavy damage in alimony and attorneys’ fees by now.

I stood in front of his desk, unsure whether taking a seat would make me feel more or less in control. This was a done deal, in all ways except my official notice, so I knew I should have felt more confidence.

Truth be told, though, the man intimidated the crap out of me. Even though he fairly oozed charm, he was irrefutably still a force to be reckoned with.

No one would ever take Randall Sloane for a fool.

“Take a seat, Zoë,” he instructed, relieving me of the need to make the decision for myself.

I sat, choosing the chair to my right, rather than the one to my left. For some reason, I felt one might have a slight advantage over the other—faulty as the reasoning might have been. I perched on the edge of the oversized leather chair, my back ramrod straight in an attempt to communicate professionalism and self-possession. Inside, though, I was scared to death and felt as though the speech I’d so carefully constructed had tumbled right out of my head.

Randall smiled at me, and I wondered if he could sense my discomfiture.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked finally.

I cleared my throat. I felt like I’d swallowed a rainforest full of frogs.

“Well,” I began, then cleared my throat again. “I’m sure you know this hasn’t been the easiest year for me. A lot of changes, and I know I haven’t been the most…um,
present
employee. I think I haven’t been giving enough of myself to the job, or really given you the performance you’ve deserved. But losing Paul has made me rethink some things, and I feel like it’s time to move on.” I paused, hoping I hadn’t just sold my job performance short.

I was trying to put the most benevolent spin on my resignation, like I was doing them a service instead of leaving them high and dry. I knew how much some of the other bookkeepers were going to resent being saddled with more responsibility, even if it was only temporarily.

“I so appreciate all the opportunities this job has given me and the confidence you’ve shown in my abilities, but I think it would be best for all of us for me to give you notice of my resignation.” I finished in a rush, feeling like a tire that had been punctured and had just expelled its last bit of air.

I wished like crazy that I could slump back spinelessly into the chair. Keeping my rigid posture was exhausting.

Randall raised an eyebrow but remained silent. I couldn’t tell if he was displeased or surprised or…

“I’m sorry to hear that, Zoë,” he said finally.

Somewhat archly, if my ears weren’t deceiving me.

Maybe I was just being overly sensitive.

“I fully intend to stay two weeks and train my replacement, of course,” I offered, hoping he would soften a little bit.

There was an air of disapproval that had settled in the office, and I wanted to get out of there as soon as humanly possible. I had a sinking feeling, though, that he wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

“So what are your plans, then?”

The question was reasonable enough, of course, but I still felt as though it was slightly intrusive. Why should I have to give further explanation or defend my decision?

“I’m opening a store,” I replied, breaking his gaze to look down at my hands.

I really needed some lotion, I thought in a flash of absurdity. When I looked back up at Randall, he was staring at me with both eyebrows raised.

“Oh?”

I nodded and attempted a shaky smile. This was it—I was stepping out and taking hold of my dreams. I deserved to be confident in that, right? I squared my shoulders and nodded again, more resolutely this time.

“Yes. I bought a building, and I’m working right now on getting the interior renovated before I open. I’m working with a contractor, and he’s thinking completion will be next month sometime.”

“That’s great,” Randall replied simply.

I expected him to press for further details, maybe ask what kind of store I might be opening, but he seemed unconcerned.

My time was up. He was finished.

“Well. Jane will need to know the particulars of your termination date, and you’ll need to write a formal letter of resignation so we can keep that on file. I’m sorry to see you go, Zoë, but I wish you the best of luck.” His manner was slightly clipped, and I knew he was cuing me to leave his office.

“Thank you,” I murmured, rising.

As glad as I was to be making my escape, I was a little dismayed at the ease with which he seemed to be handling the knowledge of my impending departure. I should have realized, though, that I was just another replaceable part of his company machine. Yes, he knew my name and displayed cursory interest in my well-being, but only as far as it served his purposes. Once I was no longer under his employ, I would fall off his radar completely.

Oh, well, I thought as I watched his chair swivel back around so that he no longer faced me. Sometimes it’s good to find out just where you factor in. It was a small confirmation that I was doing the right thing—what I was planning to do would finally be making a difference.

And that was something no one could take away from me.

Chapter 18

I was staring at the card hard enough to make it burst into flames. One more Jedi mind trick I had yet to master.

Gregory Rothschild.

It sounded like one of those names that should have a Roman numeral after it, like Gregory Rothschild
the third
.

I had his cell phone number, his e-mail address, and the physical address of the dermatology clinic he ran.

Dermatology.

I raised an eyebrow. It certainly explained a lot about his cousin’s unnaturally flawless mug.

It had been a week and a half since our dramatic first encounter, and I wondered if Greg would even remember me.

If
I called him, of course.

I still wasn’t sure I should, but Kate and Ray seemed to think it might do me good to go out on a date. Hell, even my mother was encouraging me to go. I, however, was still feeling very hesitant about the whole thing.

I closed my eyes.

I was tired. Tired enough not to know whether it was physical or emotional or both. Kind of like when everything in your body seems to be aching, you can’t really isolate one area of pain. All I knew for certain was that I was exhausted. Sleep sounded very tempting, even though it was only early afternoon.

Burrowing down into the covers and just sleeping for hours and hours…

A tap on my shoulder almost made me fall out of my chair.

I opened my eyes quickly, embarrassed at having been caught so unaware and unproductive.

“So this is how you spend company time, huh? Daydreaming?” Ray was grinning down at me wickedly, gleeful that he had been successful in his sneak attack.

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, trying to get my heart rate back to normal levels. “And what are you doing, wandering the streets during work hours?” I asked, giving him a suspicious look.

“I came to kidnap you,” he whispered, putting a finger to his lips. He gathered my purse and jacket from the coat stand just inside my cubicle and offered his hand to pull me up from my chair.

“Where are we going?” I whispered back. “And why are we whispering?”

Ray gave me a scheming smile and shrugged, never letting go of my hand as we wound our way through the maze of cubicles in the office toward the front door.

“I’m going to lunch,” I said quickly to Jane as we passed her desk.